Maid of the Sea
by hannah.jpg
Summary: The King of Rohan and the Princess of Dol Amroth marry as strangers. At least, so Éomer thought...
1. Chapter 1

Éomer was unaware that it was even possible to get seasick. Not until he went to sea for the first time.

The sons of Imrahil were not so affected. They ran up and down the sloop; checking the rigging, casting the sail and so on, with nary a thought for the waves bouncing the boat up and down as Éomer got sicker and sicker, sitting on the edge and only a foot or two from the surface of the glassy sea.

"You're looking a tad green around the gills," was Amrothos's helpful comment, from where he stood on the boom, clearly showing off. Éomer grimaced.

"Don't get in my way," he said tersely. Amrothos gave him a salute, and hopped down to busy himself elsewhere. Éomer closed his eyes—which almost helped. But the swaying of the sloop was still there, and he tried to think of anything else.

 _I am on a horse_ , he told himself firmly. _We are galloping across plains—flat plains. The breeze doesn't stink of fish. Ah…and I didn't make the mistake of eating breakfast in the morn._

"It's a perfect day for sailing!" Erchirion called from the bowsprit. Éomer opened an eye to peek at him—he was sending back a cheery smile, which Éomer did not feel like returning.

"Couldn't ask for better weather, really," said Elphir. He was securing a taut rope, and received Éomer's next half-hidden scowl. "It will be calmer outside the bay," he promised, smiling the same as his brothers and likely just as unsympathetic to the plight of their guest.

 _I want to go back to the palace_ , was Éomer's internal reply. His fingers clenched on the edge of the sloop, and the nausea in his gut twisted and churned.

It seemed to him that going for a sail the first morning after his arrival in the city was a hasty and rather cruel way to show him Dol Amroth. Perhaps a day or two to get accustomed to the humidity and piercing sunlight would have been better. Or exploring the sea from horseback on the cliffs. Really, why did it have to be _sailing_?

Imrahil's sons _knew_ that Éomer was to be formally presented to their sister that night—and that she would be his bride in two days' time. Her brothers making him completely ill on a sailing excursion seemed an unkind way to welcome him into the family. So why did they do this? Did they intend to test his mettle? Show him how unfit he was to wed a woman who loved the sea? At least, Éomer assumed she loved the sea—he knew almost nothing about her. He could barely even remember her face from when they had met in Minas Tirith months ago.

These anxieties did not ease his roiling nausea.

The voices of the princes, chattering amongst themselves, warped into warbled din in Éomer's ears. The rush of the waves, the creak of the boat…then all at once, everything stilled. The clenching of his stomach abated slightly, and he peeked open his eyes.

Gone were the towering mountains which encircled the bay and protected Dol Amroth from weather and war. All around him, nothing but the serene, blue-grey sheen of the sea, sparkling in the morning sun as the cries of gulls echoed in the salty breeze.

"I did say it would be calmer."

Éomer turned to see Elphir, standing nearest him, coiling a rope with an amused smile.

"This is not so terrible," Éomer said grudgingly, still out of humor. "Why is the bay so rough?"

"It's hardly _rough_ ," countered Amrothos. "Try a storm sometime, and _then_ say the bay is rough."

"No, thank you."

The wind was gentler than before, urging the sloop southward as the princes adjusted the sails. Éomer turned his face to the sky, breathing in fresher air than had been in the bay and enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. With the cool breeze, the sun wasn't hot enough to be uncomfortable. It was all very pleasant, and his mind wandered back to think of the princess—he did not doubt she would love the sea.

"Let's take it slower 'round the point," Elphir said after several minutes. "The scenery is too good to pass by."

Éomer privately agreed to this as the princes raised the sail. To their left, the mountains rose into pure-white cliffs, bright emerald grass topping it like a stately crown. Though it was not visible from the sea, he knew from riding into the city the day before that colorful flowers dotted the ridges in splashes of color, scarcely imaginable to his eyes, so accustomed to the browns of Rohan.

Without the wind driving them through the waves, with every swell of water they were prodded and jolted instead—Éomer grimaced, but forced a smile.

"Wine?" Amrothos was proffering a cask, but Éomer shook his head. Wine would not help, he was sure of it. Instead he cast his gaze to the sky above, wondering why a sea so beautiful was liable to make one so ill. He listened idly to the conversation between Imrahil's sons, and with his eyes closed he suddenly heard a strange popping of water. Éomer opened an eye, looking around. Nothing seemed amiss, and his attention was the only one diverted.

Then his heart and stomach gave simultaneous lurches—a dark, wet head was peeking over the opposite edge of the sloop; large, grey and glittering eyes gazing at the princes. Briefly the eyes flitted to him, and Éomer's heart beat fast again from surprise. What in Bema's name was this? The grey eyes crinkled at the corners, as if smiling. While he was thus entranced, a pale arm reached out from the water and slender fingers wrapped around the unsupervised cask of wine at Amrothos's elbow. All disappeared under the surface of the sea with only the slightest splash.

"What the—?" Amrothos had reached out for the wine, but got only empty air. He blinked, befuddled, at the coil of rope where the cask had rested. He stared up at Éomer in confusion, but Éomer only stared back with equal, if not greater confusion.

"There was a girl…a—a woman," Éomer said, stumbling over his words. "Ah, she…took your wine."

"A woman?" Erchirion repeated with a skeptical lift of his brows. Elphir was tilting his head towards Éomer, his eyes shrewd. Grey eyes, Éomer realized. The same grey of the woman in the water. His confusion grew. Amrothos was studying the sea, but there was not even a ripple out of place—at least, to Éomer's inexperienced knowledge.

"Not a woman," Elphir said at last, and he leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees as he continued to gaze intently at Éomer. "A nereid."

"Sorry—a what?" It did not escape Éomer that Erchirion had suddenly rolled his eyes, and that Amrothos had returned his attention to the happenings on the boat with a brightening smile.

"A nereid," Amrothos confirmed. "They are people—mostly women—who live in the sea rather than on land. Do you not know of them?"

"Of course not," Éomer said irritably. "I have never even seen the sea until today."

"Nereids are beings made by the Maiar of the sea," Elphir explained, his voice growing low. "They have certain…farseeing abilities. If you see one, hold its gaze until it blinks. Then it is obliged to answer one question."

Éomer wondered if the princes were making a fool of him. It seemed rather likely. But Elphir was not smiling, and Amrothos was nodding along eagerly. What other explanation could there be for a woman in the sea? The nearest beach where she might have entered the water was probably a quarter-mile away; it was not a distance _he_ could swim.

"And they have a taste for wine," Éomer said dryly.

"Who doesn't?" Amrothos said with a laugh.

 _Anyone about one jolt away from losing their breakfast,_ Éomer retorted inwardly. Aloud he said, "Do…nereids usually bother people out on the sea?"

"Oh, yes," Elphir said. "It is their favorite pastime."

"They're a myth," Erchirion cut in loudly, starting Éomer.

"Then how do you explain the wine?" Amrothos retorted.

"Easily; it was—"

"Shh! I hear something!" Elphir held out an arm to stall his brothers' escalating disagreement, and the sloop went utterly still. The creak of the sail, the light splash of water against the hull. Éomer glanced around. The pale hand suddenly broke the surface of the sea some ten feet head of them, and he nearly toppled over into the water in pure surprise. The woman was back, and this time she was laughing.

"Who is going to come and get it?" she called. Her voice was low and musical, and quickened something strangely in Éomer's veins. "Or…" she said, quirking a brow at the silent men watching or. "Shall I drink it myself?" And she pulled the cork from the cask, tilting it upwards as if to drink.

"No!" said Amrothos and Elphir in harmony. Then, Elphir alone, coaxed, "We wish that you would grant to us unknown knowledge, o nereid."

The woman's nose scrunched in apparent perplexity. It was so unlike the image of a beautiful sea-creature that Éomer's jaw nearly dropped. But a moment later she gave an unladylike shrug, and dipped again beneath the surface. His fingers clenched the edge of the sloop as the other men glanced around at the sea, waiting for her return.

She surfaced beside Éomer this time. There was an intake of breath from Elphir, and he hissed,

"Hold her gaze, Éomer! Do not let her lure you into the sea!"

The last thing Éomer wanted was to be lured into the sea. But staring into the grey eyes of this woman—creature—whatever she was, it was seeming less and less horrifying.

Her black hair was plastered to her back, exposing the porcelain smooth skin of her neck and shoulders. She was wearing a flimsy white…something, but wet, it appeared that she was wearing nothing at all. Her lips were pink, her teeth bright as they bared in predatory smile, and her nose dotted with faint freckles. Freckles? Éomer wondered dimly. How did one get freckles when one lived in the sea? But it was her eyes that were the most entrancing of all, and he leaned out further to see them closer. Droplets of seawater clung to her dark lashes, dimples formed in her cheeks. Her features were both so familiar and foreign that he did not know what to think, and…and…

She blinked, her cheeks flushing a fetching pink.

"Ah, you've won!" Elphir said beside him. Éomer flinched; he did not realize how near Elphir had come to him. "Ask her of your future!" the prince urged. "'Tis her forfeit."

The woman gave Elphir a dismissive glare filled with…exasperation, most likely. Éomer could think of no pressing desire of knowledge. So, casting his thoughts back on the last hour, he blurted,

"The princess—will we be happy together?"

There was a choke behind him, turned to a grunt as he heard what sounded like a sharp elbow meeting a gut. Elphir was still beside him, though his lips pressed tightly together as his eyes danced. Éomer turned back to the woman, who was looking far more baffled than he expected of a sea-creature that had farseeing abilities.

"Well," she said at last, her voice sounding now pragmatic rather than musical and mysterious, "That depends on _you_ , I should think."

"On _me_?" he asked in surprise. "What in Bema's name is that supposed to mean?"

"Only one question," Elphir cut in. "Begone, spirit of the sea!"

The woman cast Elphir one more baleful stare, and disappeared beneath the water. A moment later, and the cask of wine was thrown out of the sea, clattering to the deck of the sea as all the men stared at it.

"That wasn't very mystical," Éomer said.

"Let's keep sailing," said Erchirion.

"That was an odd question to ask," was Amrothos's contribution. Elphir merely clasped Éomer on the shoulder, and gave the order to bring down the sail once more.

And soon they were skimming the waves beneath the bright sun once more, and Éomer went back to pretending he was anywhere else and trying not to vomit.


	2. Chapter 2

"Reckless! Impulsive! Thoughtless!"

Lothíriel willfully ignored the remonstrations from her nurse, continuing to wring out her wet hair as she glided down the corridors of her father's palace towards her chambers. She was leaving clumps of sand as she went, her thin shift dragging against the marble floors and leaving streaks of water. That was what her nurse was complaining about—at least, so Lothíriel thought.

"I shall come and clean it up myself, if the mess is too much," she declared. Nurse Marta's steps quickened, her plump face reddening as she wagged a finger at her charge.

"No, you shan't, my lady! You are a princess, not a maid!"

"I do not mind, really—"

"Absolutely not! I will hear no more of it."

Miffed, Nurse spoke no more until they were safely enclosed in Lothíriel's chambers. Once the door shut, Lothíriel peeled her damp shift from her skin, allowing it to drop to the ground in a sodden heap.

"You _must_ cease such mischief!" Nurse Marta continued, wrath unabated as she began to roughly towel off Lothíriel's salty skin. "You are to be a bride, my lady! No man wishes a—a wild, sunburned termagant to wife!"

"If Éomer King takes issue with my swimming in the sea, he is not the sort of man I wish to marry," Lothíriel replied with complete honesty.

"Your father has put a lot of trust in you, my lady, to wed you to the King of Rohan! Do not betray that!"

"Father knows me well enough that he won't expect me to change simply because I _marry_ ," Lothíriel pointed out, lifting her arms as Nurse Marta yanked, none-too-gently, a clean, dry shift over her head. "I will be the same woman the day preceding and the day following the wedding, I am certain."

Nurse gave a formidable _harrumph_. "Then I fear for Éomer King all the more."

Lothíriel privately thought that if Éomer found _her_ unbearable, he was unlikely to make a successful king over any land. Kingship was involved with plenty of surprises; he should have the head to deal with them. And since he had, according to her father, done marvelously well since the previous spring, Lothíriel rather believed he was fully capable of enduring, as Nurse put it, a wild, sunburned termagant as his wife.

"I think he will be perfectly well," Lothíriel said aloud.

"Hmph!"

She was forced into the chair at her vanity, and Nurse Marta began to comb the salt from her dark tresses. Lothíriel tilted her head slightly as her mind continued to whirl, and foolishly said,

"It is a shame he seems to get terribly seasick."

"What do you mean?" Nurse said sharply. "How would you know—" Then her actions stopped as her eyes bulged with horror. Lothíriel winced as she realized what she had said; she was proving as impulsive as she was accused of. " _Tell me you did not see him while you were swimming!_ " Nurse Marta had ceased combing Lothíriel's hair, too distraught to even continue.

"It was complete chance," Lothíriel said with more confidence than she felt. "Really, it was no—"

"Scarcely dressed in sight of your future husband! Where anyone else might see! Of all the irresponsible—"

Pain tingled in her scalp as Nurse continued her combing, less gently than before. The lecture, increasing in rapidity, was reasonably easy to dismiss as a distant hum. Lothíriel was quite accustomed to ignoring lectures from her nurse. So she stared into the middle distance, thinking again of…well, of Éomer.

It was true that she had not _intended_ to come upon him and her brothers while she was swimming. The impulse to seek solace in the sea, to relieve her nerves of her upcoming nuptials to a man she scarcely knew— _that_ had been her reason for sneaking from the palace after Nurse Marta had sunk into deep snores in the warm, sunny solar. Embroidering was not even enough to hold Nurse's attention, let alone that of a jittery Lothíriel.

Of course, the temptation to tease her brothers as they relaxed in their sloop had been too much to resist. And to spy on Éomer a little, even…not that she had expected Elphir to tease him so ruthlessly about nereids. But that Éomer had _believed_ it!

A small smile lifted her lips. It had been fun enough to play along with the joke—until the end. The way he had looked at her! Her stomach twisted and turned with unknown and unfamiliar heat just to think about it. The few times they had met before, he had not gazed at her so…intently. It was difficult to think of aught else than his green eyes, boring into her and making her feel strangely hot and uncertain…

"What will he say, I wonder!" Nurse's voice broke through Lothíriel's thoughts, and she jolted back to the present. Nurse Marta was braiding her hair, ready to pin a pearl-dotted net to keep the heavy tresses in place. Lothíriel withheld a sigh—she detested hairnets. They gave her monstrous headaches.

"When he sees you tonight—what if he says something to your father?" Nurse continued severely. "You are obliged to act as befits a Princess of Dol Amroth when you meet him again." Nurse said a severe voice, putting the final pin in the hairnet as Lothíriel frowned.

"I shan't be a princess in two days," she said. "It can hardly matter."

"No—you shall be a queen, and the standards to reach are higher. You must put forth noble effort to fulfill your lord husband's expectations and your duties required as Queen of Rohan." Nurse Marta _always_ spoke a little pompously when it came to lecturing Lothíriel on duty. Lothíriel refrained from rolling her eyes.

"What guidelines are there for queens of Rohan, anyway?" she retorted. "For all we know, they could swim naked in rivers the same as everyone else."

"Bite your tongue! You must never speak the work _naked_ ; it is a term unbefitting—"

"A princess or a queen?" Lothíriel asked querulously. Now well and truly annoyed, she reached up and tugged an especially painful curl from her hairnet, letting it fall into her face as she stuck out her tongue into the mirror. "I think _you_ should be the Queen of Rohan, Marta. You care more for duty than me."

Nurse sniffed, though it was a smug sniff. "I am far too old to entice the King of Rohan, I am sure," she said imperiously. "But should you embarrass your father tonight—I just might try." There was a small smile hinting at Nurse's plump lips, and her ill-humor evaporating at once, Lothíriel gave a giggle.

"How forlorn your ostler would be!" she teased.

"I beg your pardon," said Nurse in a stone-cold voice, though her cheeks were red.

"Malgorn—I know he is sweet on you!"

But Nurse shrugged this off, her voice turning briskly. "That is quite enough japing, I think. Which frock do you wish to wear?"

"Oh, I do not care a whit. Choose for me."

"Very well, my lady."

Lothíriel was presently trussed and tied into a burgundy gown, with silk puffed sleeves and intricate embroidery which crossed around the bodice. It was stiff and awkward, and kept her back entirely too straight. Once Nurse declared her complete, Lothíriel hobbled into her sitting room, sinking delicately into a chair with growing boredom and a hint of despair. She would likely be confined to her chambers until supper—and that was hours away. There was no chance she could escape again—not with Nurse watching her all the more carefully.

But respite arrived not two hours later. Elphir, his nose and ears pink from the sun, was grinning as he entered, drawing Lothíriel to her feet and kissing her noisily on the cheek.

"How was the wine?" he asked mischievously.

"Wine?" Nurse asked sharply, from where she had been darning a torn stocking of Lothíriel's near the open windows.

"I did not drink any," Lothíriel lied at once—it had only been a sip, anyway. Nurse Marta harrumphed, and returned her attention to the stocking.

Elphir sat beside Lothíriel, and lowered his voice with a quick glance towards the large woman opposite them. "You quite confounded Éomer," he whispered.

"He—he did not truly believe I was a naiad, did he?" Lothíriel said, equally soft with a grin of her own.

Elphir's brows rose. "Your betrothed is quite trusting."

She suppressed a giggle, eyes darting to Nurse.

"You will not be too cruel to him, I hope," Elphir said, eyes twinkling. "I think he's half in love with you already. He was moon-eyed the remainder of the trip—though that could have been the seasickness."

Lothíriel felt a flush of embarrassment at her brother's mention of love. Love was hardly part of it; it had had no place in the marriage negotiations, and she could expect none of it in a political match. No matter what she had felt when she had met Éomer's eyes. She tossed her head airily, though the movement made her head ache all the more for the weight of her hair.

"I am sure it was the seasickness," she said boisterously.

Elphir's lips reached heights previously uncharted. "We shall see."

"He did not recognize me." This brought an unexpected pang to her breast—for all her dismissal of clothing earlier, the thought that he had never looked at her enough to remember her face was an unpleasant one. Though to be fair, her usual stately frocks were not particularly becoming. The thick, overly-layered formal gowns did not flatter her slender figure a whit. Éomer would have seen nothing but a nervous, gawky girl in an ugly dress. A far cry, indeed, from a female half-dressed and soaking wet in the sea, free from corsets and bustles and hairnets.

But even in Minas Tirith the previous spring, though they had only spoken twice, Lothíriel had memorized Éomer's face. He was to be her husband, after all! Why not admire him? Why not be interested? And certainly there was much to admire.

Her belly gave that strange, hot clenching again.

There was a loud snap in front of her face, and Lothíriel jolted, her face warm. Elphir's lips were twitching—a sure sign of impending laughter. Lothíriel forced a smile.

"We will see tonight," she said at last.

"I look forward to it."

"You…you won't tease him _too_ much," Lothíriel asked, biting her lip.

Elphir gave a feral grin, which only worried her all the more. "Only as much as you do, dear sister. The joke is yours to carry though."

It was not a comforting answer.


	3. Chapter 3

Éomer still felt a distant haze of nausea as he prepared for the welcome feast that night. He could feel the swaying of the boat still, despite his boots being firmly and gratefully planted upon the solid ground some hours earlier. And remembering the glittering grey eyes of the sea-creature that had half-entranced him…his stomach did not quite like that recollection, either.

Bema! He would meet his bride again that night. He barely remembered a slim girl, unremarkable in almost every way. Not quite comparable to a beautiful nereid, or whatever it was called—but still she would be his.

Firmly he squashed his thoughts of the creature, and fixated instead on meeting the princess once more.

The small sitting-room where they were to congregate before supper in the great hall was golden with the rays of the setting sun, streaking through the western windows. From this height, Éomer was more inclined to the sea, and he stood at the terrace gazing out for several minutes before his attention was recalled.

"Éomer! I am glad to see you standing—I was worried when I heard that my sons took you sailing this morning. I'm afraid they sometimes cause more mischief than they ought."

Éomer turned, forcing a smile as he caught sight of Imrahil standing some paces back, with the princess upon his arm. He stiffened, inclining his head. "They certainly made their best efforts to make me ill as possible."

Imrahil laughed but his daughter merely continued to gaze at the marble floors as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. This hit Éomer in the gut like a blow—was the girl so frightened? Nervous? Reluctant? Bema, he had never even considered what she might be thinking… 

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance once more, Princess Lothíriel," he made himself say, bowing low to the lady. She dragged her eyes upwards to meet his as he straightened. There was a queer feeling in Éomer's mind, a buzzing of remembrance or the distant memory of a dream—well, it had been months since they had last seen each other.

Lothíriel was dressed in the current style of Gondor: fitted bodice made of a dark, rich fabric with sleeves that puffed at the shoulders and elbows. Her slender form was swallowed by what must be twenty pounds of skirts and bustles. Her dark hair was drawn back into a hairnet, which sharpened her features into something rather severe. Her face was slightly drained of color—due to him, Éomer supposed regretfully—which even the dusting of powder did not disguise.

He did not know what to think. Even with those fine eyes, which he saw were a fetching grey, if not set off properly by the insipidly bland gown.

"Come, let us sit while we wait," Imrahil said, interrupted the awkward silence.

Éomer seized upon this notion like a drowning man upon a raft. He sat upon a settee, with Imrahil and Lothíriel across from him. He cleared his throat, trying to appear unbothered.

"Tell us of your journey from Rohan," Imrahil said.

With his eyes only occasionally flitting to his soon-to-be bride, Éomer launched into the telling with perhaps more eagerness than usually warranted. Imrahil was interested enough, though his daughter rarely looked away from her hands which were clenched in her voluptuous skirts.

It was a relief when the remainder of the family arrived, and they could set off for the dining hall together.

Éomer did wonder, briefly, if he should volunteer to escort his bride—it seemed the right thing, at least to his ken. But in Gondor, such things were different, and she stayed on her father's arm as they led the way.

Regret twisted his stomach, but he ignored it. After all, he and Lothíriel would be wed in two days' time. Surely husbands and wives were not kept apart after marriage. They would have time to talk then. He seized upon this hope, and scarcely made it through dinner without blundering over his words or spilling anything on his fine velvet tunic.

The next morning Éomer was no less unsettled.

It was with determination and some obligation that he decided to visit his bride in her own chambers; surely she would be there, and perhaps more comfortable. Enough to speak to him, perhaps?

He was correct on the first assumption, but wrong on the second. After he was ushered into her receiving room by a stone-faced woman, he sat upon a settee and waited as the woman glided into the next room. There were hissed voices beyond. Despite that they were speaking Sindarin, which he did not understand well, it sounded to be an argument. Éomer's discomfort grew.

Nearly a half-hour later, there was silence from the adjoining room, and the lady finally came out to greet him. He rose, bowing low.

"Princess Lothíriel," he said.

"My lord King." Her voice was breathless, and her color high beneath the powder on her cheeks. Her eyes met his for the briefest moment, and then flitted away as she sat in a chair. The woman servant had followed her mistress, and fixing Éomer with a beady stare, sat behind Lothíriel. A moment's hesitation, and he sat back down.

His bride appeared as uncomfortable as he. She was swathed in a great deal of fabric, with her hair hidden in a net. He pretended to gaze around the room, but saw out the corner of her eye as she lifted a hand to itch the nape of her neck. The woman behind her gave a sniff, and immediately Lothíriel's hand fell back to her lap.

"Are you enjoying your stay in Dol Amroth, my lord?" she asked in a small voice.

Éomer thought of the sailing. "Well enough," he said, trying to be diplomatic. "I have never seen anything…quite like it."

Her lips gave a quiver, as if a smile was threatening. He had never seen her smile, and he stared. The servant gave another sniff. Lothíriel opened her mouth as if to speak again, but she paused, and then shrunk back into her chair.

"Do you…like Dol Amroth?" Éomer asked. Then he kicked himself for asking such a stupid question.

"Well enough," was the reply, and that lip quiver was there again. "It is my home, my lord," she said in clarification. "I have lived here all my life. It is both bitter and sweet."

He did not understand, but he sensed a deeper sentiment behind it. Before he could ask (ignoring the disapproving stare of the woman), a knock sounded at the door, and a page entered.

"Prince Amrothos is awaiting King Éomer in the courtyard," he intoned with a bow.

He was? Éomer did not know why. But he stood at once, eager to leave the stifling confusion of Lothíriel's presence… He hesitated, and then turned to give her a short bow, picking up her small hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it.

"Good day, my lady," he said. "I apologize for my abrupt departure."

"It is of no matter. I wish you a good day as well, my lord." Her voice was soft so near, and he caught her gaze for the slightest moment. A flitting of emotion; wariness and suppressed curiosity, and she looked back down.

Éomer strode from the room, breathing deeply and wondering why he was running away from his bride. He had no reason to be frightened of her. Did he?

The moment the door closed behind the King of Rohan's broad form, Lothíriel jumped to her feet, the cool expression drained from her face and replaced with rippling agony.

"Marta!" she cried aloud, whirling around even as she tugged the stiff neckline away from her hot throat. "Why did you stay?"

"To chaperone you, my lady," Nurse replied, her voice stiff and her posture stiffer.

"We were only in the same chamber for five minutes! It would be _quite nice_ to speak to him without you or Father hovering even once before we marry." Lothíriel turned on her heel and stomped back to her dressing room, already tugging at the painful pins in her hair.

"It is not done," Nurse Marta said stonily, following her and latching the door from the sitting room shut.

"Well, it should be! 'Tis utterly unfair." Lothíriel threw several pins onto her vanity, sighing in relief as the weight of her hair upon her scalp began to lessen. She ignored Nurse's disapproving glare, giving another sigh as she tore out the hairnet. She shook out her thick tresses.

"The man should have known better than to visit your chambers without a chaperone of his own," Nurse said, picking up the discarded pins to place in a jeweled box.

"Éomer likely follows the customs of his own land," Lothíriel pointed out. "Perhaps there, men and women are allowed to speak."

"Mockery is unbecoming in a woman, my lady. I advise you hold your tongue."

Lothíriel began to argue, but she was forestalled as Nurse continued to speak loudly.

"Your retinue of wedding attendants are coming at noon, my lady. Your wedding dress will be fitted."

"I would marry in a shift, for all I care."

"Which is why I must take charge. You will be present, and you will behave as you ought."

Lothíriel frowned, but knew the futility of fighting against this. If she refused the traditions preceding the wedding, she might not be allowed to wed at all, and stay in Dol Amroth under Nurse's tyrannical care…

"I will be there," she said. _For as long as I can stand it,_ she added to herself.

* * *

Why did gaggles of women always seem to make so much noise _giggling_? Everything seemed to amuse them: the embroidery on a slipper, the end of a novel, the twittering of the birds heard through the windows. The more serious considerations elicited sighs and gasps of pleasure: the train of Lothíriel's bridal gown, the circlet her father had given her for the occasion, the pearl-dotted hairnet.

Lothíriel kept her groans to herself.

Several hours later, and with a dozen volunteers all too eager to assist in opening wedding gifts, she was able to escape at last. Nurse Marta was busy collected used tea things (the event had lasted long enough to warrant a full meal, Lothíriel though to herself), and the ladies were presently engrossed in a set of fine silk linens.

Lothíriel took a final glance, noting no eyes turned her way, and she slipped out the door and into the corridor. The air was much cooler, and thus invigorated she began to skip with renewed energy.

Curiosity began to guide her steps, and after a few minutes she was entering a partially secret side-door, glancing around to ensure that no one was watching. The palace was relatively empty—likely everyone was busy with the guests or preparing for the wedding. All the better for her.

The side-door led to an overlook above the courtyard which Amrothos had showed her many years earlier; Lothíriel had often come to spy upon her father's business or whomever they were entertaining. For now, she wished only to observe Éomer unseen, and luck was with her.

A makeshift tournament had obviously been set up: a pair of men were facing each other with wooden swords. They were both shirtless in the hot sun, and she bit back a smile. She liked spying. But where was Éomer? Her thick skirts made it difficult to cramp into the small space, but she squeezed in anyway and peeked through one of the many window slits.

Ah! There—standing beside Erchirion. He must have already fought, for he wore nothing on his torso. Lothíriel stared at her soon-to-be husband's tanned shoulders and back, wondering why he had to be standing so far away. If only he would come closer…

She could see her brother speaking to Éomer with a grin, and she heard an unfamiliar bark of laughter in response. That boded well, of Éomer had a sense of humor! Her heart lightened somewhat from the awkward burden of their morning encounter.

It did not really matter, did it? Her gaggle of attendants, the wedding dress, the hour-long ceremony, the feast; even the guests. For in a few days' time they would all be gone and in the past, and she would be left with this man, this stranger—for the remainder of her life.

Lothíriel bit her lip, still staring at Éomer's back. Did that frighten her? Perhaps a little. Perhaps…it was time to forget the rest and give her attentions to him, instead.


	4. Chapter 4

Éomer was not sure what to think.

Any other man would, though; it being his wedding day and there being a night to look forward to with all its promised pleasures. But rather than preoccupying himself with thoughts of his marital bed, he was instead trying to fathom his strange bride, who now sat across from him at the small bridal table in the great feasting hall, partaking of their wedding feast with practiced bites as though she knew of his scrutiny.

It made him uneasy. And it made him question this choice he had made. Éomer was unused to second guessing his decisions—but now he wondered if he ought to have insisted to some sort of proper courtship. One that would have allowed both him and his bride to perhaps anticipate the remainder of their life together with a bit less…trepidation.

And trepidation it certainly seemed to be. As he watched with as much subtlety as he could manage, his new wife lifted her wine goblet with a trembling hand. He started, and very nearly spoke a warning, but could not quite find the courage—and so he could only stare as the goblet slipped, splattering her cream-colored dress and clattering on the floor.

Éomer stood abruptly, drawing the attention of the bride. She stared right back into his eyes, looking rather like a young doe which had been cornered by a hunter, her grey orbs wide and fearful. Seeing that, and knowing the sensation of hunting the innocent, he was seized upon by remorse and sorrow. How could he have done this to such a young woman?

"It is alright!" he said quickly, wanting to reassure her. "'Tis only a spill…" Already a maid had retrieved the goblet and was mopping the spilled wine, and so Éomer picked up his own handkerchief and leaned over the table. "I do not mean for you to be nervous," he said more quietly, attempting to wipe the wine from her bodice. "It is merely—" She stiffened, and his hand paused over her breast as a red flush spread across his face. Éomer felt like a complete clodhead. "Oh—oh, Bema, I am sorry—I do apologize—"

"Please do return to your seat, my lord. We have become the center of attention." The words, softly spoken, betrayed little of her Southern accent. He did notice that her eyes were sparkling with no trace of ire, and he could have sighed in relief.

"Again, I do offer my most—"

But she held up her hand, forestalling his apology. "I must beg of you to enter into an agreement with me," Lothíriel said.

Agreement? Agreement to what? A marriage only in name? That she remain in Gondor? Éomer felt his stomach leaden. "What agreement?" he asked hoarsely.

"To no longer frighten each other!"

"Oh?"

"Indeed," There was no mistaking amusement now. "I have been wary of you, and when I saw your expression as you attempted to wipe my dress, I came to realize that you are utterly terrified of me! Though I cannot imagine why; I cannot be half your size!"

Catching onto her vein of lightness, Éomer found himself grinning back. "'Tis your vengeful brow and fiery glare, lady."

She laughed, which marked the first time he had heard her do so. He rather liked it, and his heart began to lighten. "I will promise to subdue my glare, then," Lothíriel said after a moment, her eyes bright with tears from laughing and still smiling broadly.

"Excellent! I shall cease to quail in your presence. And what can I do to lessen your terror, my lady? Are there too many guards? Do I grip my knife too tightly?"

"Oh, it is neither of those—it is only that—" Her expression turned sheepish, and she bit her bottom lip. "Your silence that has been unsettling. I prefer speaking, I must admit." There were dimples in her cheeks from her rueful smile, Éomer noticed, and he grinned back.

"Very well! What does my lady wish to speak about? I am at her command."

"Now you are rather forcing it, I think," Lothíriel teased. "How can I consider any topic under such pressure?"

"You have only to speak of what is at the foremost of your mind, my lady."

Her grey eyes fastened upon him, wide and earnest. "You have been on the foremost of my mind, my lord," she said. "After all, you are now my husband and yet I know you not at all."

Éomer shifted awkwardly in his seat. "My thoughts have travelled along similar paths this evening," he admitted. "I—I am sorry for this."

She blinked in surprise. "Sorry?"

"Yes. I am sorry that I never made an effort to better know you."

"Hmm." A smile was playing about her lips. "I cannot hold you to blame for that, my lord," Lothíriel said at last. "We have only met four times before, the fifth being today. And none of those instances lent themselves towards—ah, companionable intimacy. After all, this is the first time we have even conversed without my father or a chaperone hovering."

This was true. Éomer was decidedly sheepish for putting himself and the princess into this situation, whether or not she was tactful enough not to vocally blame him for it. Oddly, despite the handful of conversations they had exchanged before, her humor had never shown…or was that due to, as she said, her father always being present?

He picked up her hand, brushing a kiss against her knuckles. "I pray it is never too late to introduce oneself," Éomer said with a smile, noting the blush in her cheeks. "I am Éomer, my lady. I enjoy riding, I do not care for figs, and when I was eleven years of age I nearly set fire to the stables at Meduseld by dropping a candle onto a pile of hay in the dead of night when I was sneaking out to spy upon a new horse which my uncle had bought."

Lothíriel's brows rose. "Oh, my! That is rather a lot of information!" She paused, making a show of solemn consideration before speaking again.

"I am not at _all_ surprised that you like to ride. I share your opinion on that point. But I do rather like figs! And I never nearly set any stables ablaze." Her lips were pressed close together, and her eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned close him. Entranced, Éomer likewise bent his head to hers so that he could hear her next whispered comment.

" _I succeeded_."

After an astonished moment he burst into laughter. They were drawing a great many curious glances from their wedding guests now, but Éomer had eyes only for his bride, who was smiling smugly at his reaction.

"Now you must tell me the entire tale," he said after the mirthful moment had passed, squeezing her hand.

"Very well." Lothíriel adjusted herself primly, though there was no hiding the enjoyment she was evidently experiencing. "It was when I was quite young—eight years old, I believe. It was also at night; I had gone in search of Elphir. He was in the habit of reading to me before I went to bed, but I heard from the servants that he was in the stables.

"When I arrived, I found him asleep in the hayloft—and positively snoring! I did not understand. But then I saw a jug half-full of spirits beside him in the hay. I was quite put out."

"Naturally," Éomer said, grinning. "It seems an inclination of, er—little sisters to react in such a way."

A brow was lifted in his direction. "I shall quiz you on _that_ later," Lothíriel said. "But we digress. I was so upset at Elphir that I threw the spirits out of the hayloft towards the ground—and the bottle so happened to shatter and splash into, ah, several torches. And there being a great deal of hay in any stable—well, I am sure you can surmise what happened next."

"Oh, _Béma_!"

"'Twas quite bad," she admitted, and her cheeks were a pretty pink once more. "But no one was hurt; there were enough stablehands who saw the blazes to assist in evacuating the horses, and Elphir was roused pretty quickly by the smell of smoke."

Éomer could not quite match up a clumsy, indignant little girl with the woman in front of him, but the sparkle in her eyes certainly fit. "Was your father very angry?" he asked.

"More relieved at the minimal damage. Elphir took part of the blame, as…well, I am not sure if I ought to be confessing _his_ mistakes!" Lothíriel finished with a laugh. "But it was years ago, and so I shall."

Éomer stifled his own laugh at this.

"Elphir had some friends amongst the young lords of Dol Amroth," she explained in a low voice. "And they unfortunately thought it would be quite hilarious to convince him to drink spirits that were stronger than they led him to believe. I suppose they could have left him, after he passed out drunk, somewhere less friendly than a stable—but you can imagine their horror when they saw the very same stable engulfed in flames!"

"Béma," Éomer said faintly.

"Indeed." Lothíriel straightened her skirt. "Anyways, they were guilt-ridden enough to confess to my father what they had done. Elphir took a measure of blame, as did I, but it was shared with those foolish boys."

"What a story! And now I fear that my childhood was rather quite dull." Inwardly, Éomer began to wish fiercely that he might have come to know this impish part of Lothíriel all the sooner. Then he might not have suffered with all his nerves of late. And she, too, had appeared so fearful… His heart wrenched in regret.

"Lothíriel," he said quickly, her eyes widening with astonishment at his earnest manner. "I—"

But he was interrupted by a clanging, echoing _gong_ as the bell which kept the time in Dol Amroth's palace rang once, twice...and ten times. Éomer, his eyes still upon his bride, did not fail to notice the flush creeping into her cheeks.

"The feast is over," she said, and her voice was low. "I—I suppose we will be taken away now."

Éomer could not but agree. But he did not wish to be separated from Lothíriel _now_ ; he wanted to continue speaking to her—

Her feelings must have matched his, for she squeezed his hand tightly. "Hold your thought," she said, and he caught sight of her brothers approaching behind her. "We may speak...all night, if you wish."

Perhaps not _all_ night, was Éomer's thought. He immediately berated himself for this; for he had not intended to force himself upon this near stranger, his bride. Lothíriel's head was tilted to the side now, and a smile crept upon her lips.

"I look forward to knowing you better," Lothíriel said. Then she was drawn to her feet by a gaggle of unknown ladies, and swallowed in their midst. Still Éomer stared after her, confused and trilled and unsure all at once.

"Come on, Éomer."

He felt a hand clasp on his shoulder, and he jumped. Amrothos's grinning face was peering down at him, and before he could form a response the prince took another jab,

"You can ogle at my sister all you wish _later_. Come on!"

And Éomer obeyed.


	5. Chapter 5

Lothíriel wound her fingers 'round the thick embroidered tie of her dressing gown. It seemed to her that in the dim of the bridal chamber, not only where the soft noises of the crackling fire and the distant waves crashing on the cliffs below louder than usual—but her trepidations as well.

It began to worry her not a little that Éomer still appeared to be completely ignorant that she was his 'nereid.' She ought to tell him, of course. But how could she? How foolish would _she_ appear to him? And as she was now his wife—her stomach flipped pleasantly at this thought—she did not wish to earn his ire, however little she meant to incur it. Since she had experienced his amiability at the feast, unfettered by her father's anxious gaze or Nurse's disdainful sniffs, her curiosity of Éomer was growing. And her admiration.

Lost in these thoughts as she twirled the tie around her fingers, gazing out of the terrace to the dark sea and sky, she did not hear the door open. The chamber behind her seemed to grow quiet. She wondered at it—but then a soft intake of breath behind caused her to whirl around.

Éomer was standing there, smiling a smile that was a little nervous, a little wary. Lothíriel returned his smile; with the same nervousness but with her own wistfulness, too.

"I was wondering how long my brothers would keep you," she blurted, clasping her fingers together with a sense of awkwardness.

"Not long," he said, looking relieved for her having spoken first. "I was half-worried they would take me for a sail under the stars, as they threatened numerous times."

Lothíriel laughed aloud. "It is generally not advisable to go sailing with anyone whose heads are muddled with wine, let alone in the dark! It is fortunate that you escaped."

"Aye, that it is." Éomer shifted his weight, his eyes still intent upon her face. She felt her cheeks warm, and he said quickly, "Shall we sit, then? I see there is repast laid out for us—are you hungry?"

She smiled at his kindness, and stepped forward to take the hand which he offered. His hand was large, overly warm, and when his fingers curled around hers a heated jolt made her shiver. "No," she managed to say, though she had half-forgotten what they were speaking of. Oh, right—food. "I am satisfied, though a glass of water would do me well, I think."

Éomer drew her to the hearth, where a cheerful fire winked behind the iron grate. Two chairs were sat there, and a table filled with victuals. Wine, breads, cheese, fruit. None of which appealed to Lothíriel, as she still felt jittery with nerves. Once they were sitting in their places, her husband filled her a chalice from the decanter of cool water, which she sipped.

"Have you sailed during the night before?" he asked, settling back in his chair.

"Oh! Several times," Lothíriel said, brightening. "We sometimes travel by sea, you know, and it is ridiculous to stop at a port each night when there are beds aplenty in ships. Oh—did you already know that?" 

"No, I didn't," Éomer said.

"I am unsure how much you know of our way of life," she confessed, trailing a finger 'round the rip of her chalice. "I do not mean to sound condescending, if that is what you think."

"I do not think it at all."

Lothíriel smiled, with relief this time. "Good. Well—ships during the night are comfortable enough, if you do not mind being rocked in your sleep. But the pleasure boats—the sloops and such, are quite different underneath the stars. There are no cabins, no coverings. It can be more dangerous. But for short excursions…it is lovely."

She paused, her eyes flickering to the fire. "Every spring solstice we go out on the sea at midnight, to send little handmade ships lit with candles to—to the west, and to Ulmo. To give thanks for surviving the winter hurricanes, and to plead for bounty and protection for the next year. It is lovely with the stars above, and the candles looking like stars upon the sea."

"That sounds beautiful," Éomer said in a murmur.

"It is one of my favorite memories. We—my family and I—would go out on a sloop all together, just ourselves. My mother would make us all sing. I hated it then," she remembered ruefully. "But I miss it now."

Lothíriel turned back to him to smile, and was surprised in the flickering light to see his cheeks turn faintly red. Why? Was it…her? Her fingers flew up to fumble the end of her loose braid nervously, unsure what to do, what to say. How could she have babbled so much to her new husband? And on their wedding night, no less!

"Tell me," she blurted. "What festivals are there in Rohan? I would very much like to know."

Éomer's features softened somewhat, and he leaned forward on his elbows, his gaze holding hers. She grew breathless, and felt the deep tones of his voice thrumming through her being.

"In the autumn, once the harvest is over, there is a festival held in Edoras to buy and sell horses," he said. "Traders come from even Dale and Minas Tirith for a full sennight of no work, no chores—everyone is helping out somehow. There are even competitions to find the best rider, best jumper, the strongest horse, etc."

"Oh!" Lothíriel said in a sigh. "How wonderful! I do so love riding; I would very much like to see such a festival!"

Éomer's lips lifted in a wry smile. "You will."

She had almost forgotten. She would live in Edoras now, and as its queen. A strange feeling stole over her, and for a moment she mused as to its source while her husband glanced warily at her.

"Do you compete?" Lothíriel asked briskly, to end the odd moment as soon as possible.

"I have, on occasion. When I was sixteen, I won the sprint race with my horse at the time—a gelding called Æled. I am sure I strutted around Meduseld for about month afterwards."

"And do women attend?"

Éomer blinked, as if the question startled him. She did not know why it would, until he said, in a cautious tone, "Of course. Some even compete."

Lothíriel stared. "Oh," she said dumbly. "There are shieldmaidens. That makes sense. That is a relief for me, I suppose!" she added with a laugh. "I shan't have to sneak around to see the sights!"

"Dol Amroth is a strange place, if you have been forced to sneak around to see horses," he said after a moment, and a hint of a frown touched his brow.

"It's not that, not precisely," Lothíriel told him in a rush. "I have a horse, and I ride often. But racing and such is not considered appropriate for ladies to witness."

"Hmm."

She set the chalice back on the table, her nerves rushing back. "Dol Amroth _is_ strange," she blurted. "I—I have never quite fit in. All the mischief I have found myself in, purposefully or otherwise; it is not becoming to a princess. My nurse has lectured me nearly every day of my life, and even Father…I do not think I am as…tranquil as he would have me be."

Éomer studied her another moment before shaking his head. "I cannot agree with your last statement," he said. "Imrahil has praised you in my hearing many times, and you appear perfectly tranquil to _me_."

Lothíriel was unable to keep from smiling. "We scarcely know each other. You will learn, I am sure."

"I look forward to it."

The odd way his voice caressed those words made her shiver, and the recollection of what night it was, and who she was, and who he was came rushing back. She berated herself severely—her brains were all jumbled! Before she could frown (for which Nurse would surely scold her, as frowning scrunched her face entirely and was liable to give her wrinkles), Éomer surprised her by reaching across and taking her hand once more.

"Lothíriel…" he began, his voice low. "About, er—tonight. I know what is expected, but as you said, we hardly know each other. I would not wish for you to be fearful, and—"

"I am not afraid," she interrupted, baffled by his meaning.

Éomer paused. "I…have been told that all women are."

"Of the marital bed? Perhaps some are. But I am not," Lothíriel said with all honesty. She smiled a little. "Father always said I should be a little more afraid. I think he was referring to climbing cliffs or swimming too far out to sea." She hesitated. "Do I need to be afraid?"

"I hope not," he said, and his smile was wan. "I do not wish to hurt you, but as things go…it can be uncomfortable, I think."

She bit her lip, considering. "I have sustained enough injuries in my life that some discomfort does not frighten me." Lothíriel met Éomer's eyes, and she felt a quiver alone her spine. "Well," she said, more pragmatically now. "I cannot pretend that I am not _nervous_ —because I suppose I am, at least a little. I hope you might be patient with me; I have never even been kissed."

"Never?" he asked in astonishment.

"Never."

Éomer studied her a moment more. "It is a good place to start, as any," he said at last. "Are you certain?"

"Indeed," she said, her nerves causing her to laugh. "I am not one to think things through, you know."

"That is…worrisome."

"Only if I am in danger."

"There is no danger here."

"Then all will be well. I am certain."

He sat forward on the edge of his chair, and the blood singing in her veins with exhilaration of the unknown (a familiar feeling), Lothíriel copied him. She touched her hair, briefly, wondering if she looked well, or if she should feel more self-conscious. But she pushed that thought away. Éomer picked up her hands in hers, opening his mouth before speaking.

"If you wish to stop at any time, you have only to say so," he told her.

"That will not be necessary, I think. But thank you."

He squeezed her hands briefly, and then lifted his to touch her face. Lothíriel's breath caught; his face was rather near, and she could see the flecks of green in his eyes reflecting from the fire in the hearth. They flickered across her face, and after a heart-rending moment, he leaned forward.

The first kiss was merely a brush, and then he pulled away. She teetered, unsure why her hands were growing clammy. She clenched them in her dressing gown, but offered a tentative smile all the same. Seeing that she was not cowering in fright, Éomer leaned in again.

This was not so innocent; his lips lingered on hers, warm and soft with the prickles of his beard rasping against her mouth. Lothíriel's eyes fluttered shut— _this_ was quite nice. Better than the accounts of kissing she had heard from the maidservants around the castle. Gently, so gently that she did not realize what was happening, the touch of his lips began to ease hers apart. Her stomach churned with sudden heat, and she gave a gasp.

Immediately Éomer pulled way. The pattering of her heart was making it hard to breathe—had it become so warm in the chamber? Lothíriel clutched the neckline of her dressing gown, staring at her husband. His eyes were shadowed, but his breathing sounded ragged, too.

"I liked that," she said without thinking, and scooted further out on her chair. She would probably fall off, but she did not care. Anything to be kissed like that again… "Did you?" Lothíriel blurted.

He smiled; a handsome smile, and it caused her heart to begin to race once more. "I did," he said, his voice sounding husky now. "I would like to kiss you again, if I may."

"Please."

One of Éomer's large hands cupped the back of her neck, and the sensation of his fingertips against her sensitive scalp, tangling with her hair nearly made her gasp again, but then his mouth was on hers again, and she forgot nearly everything else.

It took some practice to breathe properly while kissing, but Lothíriel was a fast learner—especially when the rewards were so enjoyable. But enjoyable barely began to cover it; it was exhilaration and heat and yearning all in a mess, stuttering her heartbeat and shuddering her limbs. Without thinking, her hands roved to Éomer's upper arms, clenching him tightly. The muscles there twitched, and he shifted closer to her so she did not have to reach so far. Likely he was half-off his chair, too. But she could not _quite_ care; his tongue gently tracing along her lips did not begat wise thinking…

"Ohhh…" Lothíriel gave a moan, pulling away and pressing a palm to her head. "I think I am dizzy."

"Are you?" Éomer evidently was not so concerned. He gave her only a moment of respite before pressing a kiss to her cheek, to her jaw—no, make that several along her jaw. Her neck arched, and the prickles of hot sensation crawled across the skin on her neck and down her spine. He found a particularly pleasurable spot behind her ear, and the sound of his deep, rough breathing made her moan again. Then he really did break away.

"You're too far away," he said, a little impatiently. He sat back, patting his knee. "Come sit with me."

"Wi— _with_ you?" Lothíriel asked, her voice trembling. His eyes were glittering bright, more luring than ever, and she swallowed thickly.

"It will be more comfortable than me sitting on you," Éomer smiled. "You shan't hurt me, I promise."

"Oh—very well then."

She stood, and as he took her hand to guide to her towards him, he added, "You will have the control, Lothíriel. Kiss me as you please. Do whatever you wish, or whatever you are comfortable with."

"Oh, dear—but I do not know _what_ to do."

He grasped her by the waist and pulled her downwards. Lothíriel gave an unladylike squawk, but Éomer settled her upon his knee with his arms looped around her, smiling up at her.

"Trust your instinct," he advised. His face was near again, more alarming than before with his body pressed so close to hers. She swallowed again as his hand traced upwards on her back. It was so nice—it had _all_ been so nice, that she couldn't really fear kissing him again.

And kiss him she did. It was quite different; being at a higher angle and able to move as she wished. She tasted his lips, his tongue… Her hands traced his beard, surprised at how soft it was, and she felt the hot skin at his neck, throbbing with pulse. The collar of his tunic. The knot of hair at the back of his neck. Then, following his example, Lothíriel moved her lips to where her hands were, and she breathed in deeply his tantalizing scent, her nose against his throat. She had never smelled a man so intimately before, and the heat streaking through her veins with lightning speed pooled in her belly.

His hands, holding her steady by the waist, shook slightly, and she heard him swallow a groan. Shaky herself, Lothíriel pulled away, giving Éomer a breathless, beaming smile.

"I like this!" she said.

"So do I." There was emotion in the lines of his face as he gazed up at her, and his hold on her waist tightened. "Are you not getting warm? Your dressing gown is awfully thick."

"Oh—yes, I am." Lothíriel had not noticed, but when he mentioned it she realized the prickles of heat on her skin were feeling suspiciously like sweat. She sat forward, frowning as she tugged the knot of her dressing gown free. With Éomer's help, it was pulled from her shoulders, and she dismissively she tossed it to her abandoned chair.

"Better," she said cheerily, wafting open the neckline of her nightshift to allow cooler air to kiss her heated skin. "Aren't you warm, too?"

"A bit. I can wait." Already he was leaning to her again, to her neck once more, and her eyes fluttered shut as he teased and nibbled the skin there. His hands were much hotter now, with only her thin shift separating them from her flesh. She could barely move while he did this to her, and she welcomed when he moved aside the neckline of her shift to give attention to her shoulder.

When Lothíriel could stand it no longer, she impatiently squirmed from beneath him, settling herself more comfortably upon his lap. Her shift rode upwards as she sat astride, tilting his head upwards to kiss him. Oh… _yes_. There was heat radiating from Éomer, not an uncomfortable heat, but one which made her almost forget what she was doing. Oh, goodness! Or was the heat from her? Everything was so new that she did not know.

His hands traced the bare skin of her legs, and began to move upwards. To her hip, past her waist…alone her spine, and then—

Many years ago when she had first become a woman, Nurse Marta had warned her sternly that men had a liking for breasts. Lothíriel, not understanding why in Arda anyone would care much for something as boring as any other body part, had dismissed it. She did not dismiss it anymore. The moment Éomer's thumb brushed against her peak, another one of those excruciatingly pleasant jolts made her gasp aloud.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked hoarsely into her mouth.

"No! No, no, no. Not at all."

That was the most sense she made of anything for the next while. Tenderly he stroked the sensitive parts of her body—not that she had known before tonight now sensitive her skin could be—and she showed him her appreciation with kisses and touches of her own.

"Éomer," she rasped sometime later. "Am…I squishing you?"

"Erm…no."

"My knees are aching."

His teeth caught her ear. "We can move, my sweet. The bed might be most comfortable for, _ah_ , this."

With measured breaths, trying to regain her wit, Lothíriel drew away from him. Reluctantly he released her, frowning ever so slightly as she swung her tender legs back onto the ground. And then promptly gave way.

"Oh!"

But he caught her arm before she fell. She laughed nervously as he stood beside her, supporting her weight.

"I am sorry!" she blabbered. "I did not realize—"

"It is all well, Lothíriel," Éomer said, with endless patience. He was so _tall_ next to her; she had to crane her neck back to see his face. He was smiling, and her knees went weak again. Then without a word, he swept her into his arms. She gasped aloud again—she was really making a fool of herself, wasn't she?—but despite herself, she laughed as he carried her to the bed.

The coverlet was cool, after their activities in front of the fire. Lothíriel bit her lip, watching her husband out of the corner of her eye as he began to unlace his tunic. He did not remove his gaze from her, not until he wrenched the tunic over his head.

Oh, my. _That_ was a nice sight. And she had been spying on her father's soldiers for years. None of them had inspired the same response in her as Éomer did. That was probably a good thing. She smiled, feeling a giggle threaten.

"What is it?"

"You are very fit, aren't you?" she mused. His head tilted towards the side, studying her.

"I suppose."

"I like to look at you," Lothíriel said boldly.

"You flatter me."

"Do you like to look at me?" The question was out before she could stop it. Blast! She should not have said that, and she felt her cheeks warm as her eyes dropped. Stupid, stupid!

Then she felt his finger brush against her cheek, and she jolted, gazing back up at him. "Yes," he said, and hesitated. "But I wonder that this is the same woman who refused to look at me these past days."

Lothíriel offered a rueful smile. "I was nervous," she said. "The way everyone was speaking about our marriage, and the expectations…it is different now, when it is only you and I."

"That it is." His eyes darkened, and heat flared again in her stomach though he was not touching her at all. She reached for his hand, and he climbed into the bed above her.

"Can we still kiss?" she asked in a whisper.

Éomer answered with his lips against hers, and her arms wound around his neck to hold him close. A moment passed, and with a groan he sunk atop her, the rough lacings of his trousers scraping the soft flesh of her thighs, where her shift was bunched. Apart from that, his weight was incredible, pressing into the center of her heat. Though before that moment, she had not realized that was where her heat was building…how very interesting. Her fingernails dug into to flesh of his shoulders, and he squirmed, pushing harder against her.

Oh! The frantic beating of her heart would surely burst from her breast. She could scarcely breathe now, even when he released her lips to taste her collarbone.

"Éomer," she moaned. "Éomer, what is this?"

"Hmm? What is what?"

"Oh…the—the _everything_! I can barely stand it—"

He was tugging away the hem of her shift, and with a slow, hoarse breath in her ear his fingers traced along her sensitive skin. "You want me," he murmured. "I feel it, too."

Oh. Well then. This was the desire that Lothíriel had read of, in poetry and novels which she snuck behind Nurse's back. That made perfect sense.

Then his fingers found her center and she forgot what she was thinking about. As far as her muddled senses knew, it was only Éomer and her in the palace, in the world…there was no other time than this moment, and no other feelings than the growing, aching desire she felt in her every limb.

He left her shuddering and out of breath sometime later, a few minutes or an hour—Lothíriel could not think—and she watched with lazy interest as he hastened out of his trousers. Hmm. There would be a better time to think of it later. Éomer climbed back over her without pause, pushing her nightshift above her head and tossing it to the floor.

There was a moment, then, as his gaze flickered over her body. She was too excited to be ashamed, and when his eyes met hers again he opened his mouth, hesitating. "You…" he began. Then, "You look nothing like the clothes you wear."

"I should hope not," she smiled. "The present fashions are not flattering, I will admit."

"I prefer you like this."

Heat flushed her cheeks, and she bit her lip as her smile widened. "So do I," Lothíriel said frankly. "When I am alone in my chambers, I stay in a shift as often as I can get away with it."

Éomer's lips curled upwards. "I like that," he said. "I am a fortunate man." And to show her just how fortunate he felt, he lowered his weight atop her, kissing her fiercely as her legs wrapped instinctively around his hips.

The pain which Nurse had promised was not there. Only Éomer, and the pleasure he gave her. Lothíriel welcomed him into her body, reveling in the sense as he moved, gently at first, and then more forcefully as pleasure rippled through her. Then it was building to unbearable heights, and she cried aloud without meaning to, borne away on waves, just like the sea but so different, _so_ different…

And when the chamber was quiet again, and her husband nuzzling the base of her throat with his nose, exhaustion overwhelmed her. It was too much to consider right then, and she gave a yawn. Immediately Éomer alighted, and as Lothíriel burrowed herself into the soft pillows, he pulled the covers upwards to cover their nakedness.

"Good night, my sweet." A last murmur in her ear, and she fell into dreaming with a smile on her lips.


	6. Chapter 6

Éomer woke with the dawn, though he did not rise with it.

The bed was too warm, too enticing with his sleeping wife beside him and her dark hair spreading across the pillows in an alluring away. Though her back was to him, he could see the smooth skin of her shoulders above the covers, rising with her deep breaths. After a few moments of attentive observation, he propped himself on an elbow, wishing he could see her face. Was he misremembering how pretty she was the night before, compared to the pallid, barely-noticeable thing of their previous encounters? Or was that simply the wonderful, passionate way she had responded to him?

Restlessly he picked up the end of her mussed braid, untying it to gently comb his fingers through her soft hair. She began to stir, and with an adorable sleepy mumble his bride flopped onto her back, rubbing her eyes. Her face was split with a yawn, and Éomer was pleased to see her cheeks flushed pink, striking against the freckles across her nose and cheeks—

He frowned. He had not noticed Lothíriel ever having freckles. Damned Gondorian cosmetics.

Her eyes blinked open, staring at him in bafflement. He offered a smile, and her flush deepened as she remembered. There was a sparkle in her grey eyes as she fidgeted with the hem of the counterpane.

"Good morning, my lord," she said, a smile creeping her lips upwards.

"Good morning, my lady. We are on exceedingly formal terms this morning, aren't we?" Éomer grinned, surprised at himself and Lothíriel and how wonderful the previous night had been. His fears leading up to their wedding had not considered any sort of friendship or passion, both of which he had felt, even against all odds. It was a good omen.

She shifted nearer to him, and obligingly he wrapped her close in his arms as she burrowed her head in his shoulder with a sigh. Her entire body was pressing close to his, and he tried to not to be embarrassed at his growing reaction. He kissed the top of her sweet-smelling head, and she gave another sigh.

"Last night…" Lothíriel began, and then paused. Then, "That was good, was is not?"

"Better than good, my sweet. Excellent."

"Oh, that is a relief to hear! I was worried."

Éomer smoothed away the loose hair from her face, feeling a strange churning in his stomach. She looked different this morning, than she had in the dark of the night. The bright sun, shining through the trellised door to the terrace, was soft on her skin, illuminating it more than any powder could. Her eyes, too, were different—less dark. And the slender curve of her neck and shoulders, the full lips so pink as her smile widened.

"You are staring at me as though you have never seen me before," Lothíriel teased.

He chuckled, winding his fingers into her hair again. "In some ways, I haven't. I prefer you without a stitch of clothing, I admit."

Her cheeks were red, and beautifully so. Éomer watched with interest as she bit her lip, her eyes burning into his. "Can I kiss you again?" she asked tentatively.

"Of course. There is no rule against it, certainly not _now_ ; considering the intimate terms were on last night…"

He was rewarded for his teasing by his wife tugging him downwards with her slender fingers wrapped around the back of his neck, her lips both eager and searching. He responded in kind, wondering how she affected him _so_ fiercely... Éomer bit back a groan, his blood rushing through his limbs with an almost painful intensity.

Her breathing ragged, Lothíriel pulled away with glitteringly bright eyes. He nearly asked what she was doing, but it was obvious soon enough: she pushed him away and swung her leg over his waist, leaning over to kiss him better from her height.

Well. She wasn't shy; not anymore.

Éomer's back pressed into the uncomfortable hardness of the headboard, but he scarcely noticed. Instead he wove his fingers into her long, silky tresses, enjoying the whimpers from her throat as she kissed him, and her hips pressed into him with eagerness.

"Can we—can we do it like this?" Lothíriel asked sometime later, her voice husky in his ear.

"Mm-hmm." He smiled, opening his eyes to gaze into her pale grey, sparkling ones. She was smiling, too, with a lovely flush in her cheeks and her hands cradling his face tentatively. With her dark hair hanging around her face, in waves down her shoulders and back, she looked like—she looked like—

Éomer felt as though he had been stuck in the stomach.

The smile on her lips faltered. "What is it?"

"You—you, ah…" How could he say it? What in _Arda_? "You were the nereid," he said stupidly. "That day on the boat—"

"Oh." Lothíriel's smile did not fade, though now it was decidedly sheepish. Her hands fell from his face, and she sunk back to sit on his legs. Éomer only stared.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked hoarsely.

"I…was worried what my father would say, if he found out," she admitted. "It's is not considered appropriate for women—let alone princesses—to swim alone in the sea, scarcely dressed and in full view of unmarried men. And I did not know how _you_ would react. I never wanted your…contempt."

Éomer considered this a moment more, frowning as he stroked the ends of her hair. "Well," he said at last. "Between your jaunt as a nereid and setting your father's stable ablaze, I am beginning to think I married the most impish woman alive. Should I fear for my peace?"

Lothíriel clamped a hand to her mouth, covering giggles. With a mock-stern glare, he pulled her hand away and her laughter filled the chamber.

"Oh, I am sorry!" she said, sounding rueful. "I really can be terrible. I act faster than my brains, sometimes. My nurse could fill your ears with the mischief I've gotten into."

"I would like to hear every story, in time," Éomer told her, smiling as he touched the soft skin of her cheek.

"Then…you are not angry?"

"Not at all."

Her smile was relieved, and she let out a puff of air as her fingers laced 'round his forearms. "I am fortunate, then," Lothíriel said. "I feared, sometimes, that you would scorn me for my idiotic ventures. Most men would, I think."

"Does your father?"

"Well, no—but he has learned a great deal of patience and tolerance since I was born."

Éomer's thumb traced along the pout of her bottom lip, which curled into a smile. "Meduseld is too quiet," he said. "I look forward to you being there with me."

She replied with a little, contented sort of sigh, and leaned forward to kiss him again. Revelations were forgotten, with her unabashed enthusiasm for exploring him and the nature of the heat between them. Éomer enjoyed this, more than he might have admitted, and was just beginning to feel like he could not wait a moment more as her soft flesh engulfed him in sweetness—

A knock sounded at the door. Lothíriel broke away with a gasp, barely in time to snatch the counterpane to her chest as the door opened.

A line of servants entered. The foremost of the woman, tall and stout, appeared nonchalant for having caught them in such a position, and gave a curtsey. Éomer stared, his mind feeling slow and muddled, but Lothíriel gave another squawk and fell off his lap, tumbling into the bed.

"Good morning, my lord; my lady," the woman said. "We have brought breakfast and clothing. Is there anything you need?"

"Marta!" Lothíriel said in agony. Her brows were creased, but even in her exasperation Éomer thought his wife was adorable.

"We were ordered by your father to see you fed and cared for, my lady," the woman replied, lifting her nose in the air. The other servants, to their credit, had left their burdens—a few trays and bundles of clothing—and were scurrying out.

"If we need anything, we shall send for it," Lothíriel said sharply. Éomer found her knee under the blankets, and squeezed it. She gave a little noise, lifting the counterpane higher.

"Yes, my lady. My lord." And with another stately curtsey, the woman pulled the door shut behind her.

Silence. Then, lazily, Éomer observed, "Those poor servants."

"Oh, no…" Lothíriel held a hand to her face, and he saw that the skin beneath it was bright red. "I am so embarrassed!"

"Don't be," he advised. "It is not worth it." He thought for a moment, and then added, "I do not doubt they got far more of an eyeful of _me_ than they expected."

She lifted her head, staring at him incredulously—Éomer tilted a brow upwards, and without warning she burst into gales of laughter. He liked her laughter; it was musical and joyful, unabashed and unashamed. It reminded him of the little sprite that had teased her brothers on the sloop not two days ago. Smiling to himself, he caught his bride around her slender waist and tackled her into the bed.

Lothíriel gasped aloud, and her giggles turned throaty as he nuzzled her breast before trailing upwards to her neck. "Oh, Éomer…" she said, a little breathlessly. "Oh! Oh…I quite like _that_ …"

"I like having you here," he murmured into her ear. "I can be sure you aren't tossing candles onto piles of hay or causing every sailor in the vicinity to fall madly in love with you."

"I am innocent of the second!"

"No, you're not."

But forbearing any explanations, Éomer gave his attention to making love to his wife in a manner which would keep her from asking questions. And in doing so, he was rendered unable to answer any questions, anyway.

It was decided as they broke their fast together, wrapped in robes and lingering in the warm sun on the terrace, that they would go for a ride that morning. He was curious to see how Lothíriel handled a horse, and to explore the cliffs of Dol Amroth with such a spunky guide. So once they were sated, she sent for her riding habit (the clothing brought for her had been an elaborate and rather ugly morning dress), and Éomer washed and dressed himself.

"I am going to fetch the rest of my belongings," he told her, stooping over to kiss the top of her head. She was sitting near the bare hearth, tapping her toe impatiently. He could see the curves of her breasts where her dressing gown did not quite cover, and if he stayed…well, there would be no point in his dressing. Lothíriel gave him a smile, and nodded.

But she was not smiling when he returned. In fact, as he strolled down the corridors with his saddlebags on his shoulder and his thoughts elsewhere, he was surprised to hear raised voices from the bridal chamber.

" _No_ , Nurse, I shan't wear a hat!" That was Lothíriel's voice, and Éomer pushed open the door. He observed with interest his wife, barely visible through the high neckline and heavy folds and skirts of a Gondorian riding costume, facing down the portly woman from earlier.

"You must!" the woman retorted, brandishing an odd-looking thing at her. "I will see no charge of mine burned from the sun and wind!"

"I do not care! That hat is _hot_ —"

"You cannot abuse your skin so!"

"Sweating in every nook and cranny _is_ abuse!"

Éomer cleared his throat. " _Ahem_."

This effectively silenced the discussion, and both women turned to him. The elder immediately sunk into a curtsey, and he saw Lothíriel surreptitiously wipe a tear from her eye with a tremble in her lips.

"There is a cedar chest in my guest chamber," he said to the servant. "Will you see that it is brought here?"

"Yes, my lord." With a final, furtive glare at Lothíriel, who returned it with her arms crossed, the woman glided past Éomer and from the room. He nudged the door shut, still watching his wife curiously. She met his eyes balefully, her lips curved downwards in a frown.

"I hate this," she said, her voice choking. "This stupid dress—the hat—everything!"

He was suitably disappointed to see that her hair was coiled and hidden in one of those detestable hairnets. If he wasn't mistaken, Lothíriel was barely moving her head, as if it pained her. He frowned, too.

"Then don't wear it," Éomer said dismissively. "Are you ready?"

She nodded, and without a word strode towards him, clasping his arm in her hands as if desperately seeking his reassurance. He gave it willingly, patting her hand with a smile.

"It is only a hat, you goose," he teased. "You have faced down worse, I am sure."

Lothíriel's humor was restored. A smile blossomed on her face, and as they walked together for the stables she regaled him with descriptions of all the carnivorous fish found in the sea, and how many she had sighted while swimming. He was not comforted.

Éomer must preferred observing the sea from the cliffs than from a boat. Here, there were no waves jostling him about; only Firefoot's steady strength the scent of wildflowers crushed under the horses' hooves. The wind was cool, contrasting with the warm sun above, and Lothíriel's delighted laughter as they galloped madly north on a well-worn path made his heart thump oddly, in a way he did not recognize.

"There!" she said at last, panting for breath as she reined in her mare at a rocky outcrop. Éomer cast his eyes appreciatively at the panorama view. It was stunning, truly; the sea sparkled and churned lovely blues and greys in the morning sun. Some ships were visible on the surface, far distant and no more than white specks of sail. He pretended to consider a moment more, and then glanced at Lothíriel out of the corner of his eye.

"I struggle to find something which makes me so seasick attractive in the slightest," he said.

Her lips pressed together as she glanced at him, her eyes alight with amusement. "My brothers were unkind to you," she said.

"How so?"

"They drove the boat far too fast to be steady, and took you out on waves that could make anyone ill on so small a sloop."

"The size of the boat matters?" Éomer asked curiously.

"Oh, yes. Did you not sail with my brothers from Cair Andros after the war?"

"I did."

"And you were not ill?" Lothíriel's brow quirked.

"Ah—no." The thought had not occurred to him.

"Those ships were much larger," she explained. "And while the Anduin certainly does not have the roiling which does the sea, the construction and shape of a boat does affect seasickness."

He considered this as he returned to watching the sea below. Distantly he could hear the crash of the waves against the cliffs, but it was faint.

"I did not make a favorable impression on you, that day," Éomer mused.

"Quite the opposite!" Lothíriel said at once. "I thought you were…" Her voice trailed off. He glanced at her with an expectant smile, and she gave a short laugh. "Intriguing," she decided.

"How very complimentary."

"Well, I did decide not to beg my father to call off the wedding, nor to run away."

Éomer laughed. "Do not say that! You worsen my regret for not courting you properly."

"Hmm." Her eyes grew distant, and it was a moment before she spoke again. "Well—perhaps it is for the best. You can know me better without chaperones."

"Indeed, I have learned that."

Lothíriel's mare shied under her, but she handled the reins expertly and turned her horse's nose northward again. She threw a glance over her shoulder. "Race to the next bend?" she asked, her smile taking on a savage tilt.

Éomer returned the grin, and Firefoot sprung forward.


	7. Chapter 7

It was not until three days later that Éomer remembered the cedar chest he had brought with him from Rohan. They were just moseying back to their chambers after a luncheon with her brothers and father when they passed the woman servant who had walked in on them the morning after their wedding, and he was struck with remembrance.

But rather than admit his mistake, he pretended that was what he meant all along—in the slanting afternoon light, he gave to his wife a silver key from his saddlebags and said solemnly, "This is my wedding gift to you."

Lothíriel's eyes widened at this, and her fingers curled around the key. "But what is it?" she asked.

"Well—" He had to be honest. "I am not entirely sure. Éowyn chose it for you."

"Éowyn chose it?" There was laughter threatening her lips, and he grinned.

"She and Faramir know— _ahem_ , knew you better than I. I did my best, all things considered."

"Indeed, all things considered."

Lazily he leaned back in a chair as Lothíriel knelt beside the chest, pushing open the lid eagerly. He enjoyed watching the plays of emotion on her face; when she was uninhibited by social strictures or chaperones, she wore her feelings openly and passionately. Her lips parted in astonishment as she slowly lifted a soft linen package, setting it upon her lap. She glanced up at him.

"I am as excited as you," Éomer drawled. She stuck her tongue out at him, making him smile, before untying the knotted string.

"Ohhh…" Her breathy cry was utterly endearing. Folds of fine white wool fell across her lap, and reverently she buried her fingers into the fabric.

"It's a dress," he said, surprised.

Lothíriel blinked, and seized the folds to lift it upwards. The frock was in the style of Rohan; with a low neckline, loose sleeves, and a bodice that would not require a corset. Silver and gold threads were shot through at the neckline and sleeves, and a gold belt fell from the package as Lothíriel shook out the skirt.

"Try it on," Éomer advised, as his wife appeared to be speechless. At once she stood, scattering the wrappings everywhere, and the dress slung over one arm she began to tear at the buttons of her frock. Alarmed at her haste as one button popped off and fell to the floor, he stood, and gently pushing her fingers away to take care of the frock himself.

It was quickly discarded, as well as the underskirt, bustle and at Éomer's prompting, the corset. Lothíriel's color was high as he assisted her in lifting the white dress over her head, and it slid over her slender body as if it was made to do so.

Which, of course, it was. Éomer would have to remind himself to thank his sister for such a gift. How had she known that Lothíriel would welcome the freedom of such clothing? No doubt Faramir had had a say.

His wife was laughing, smoothing the fine wool with her hands as she spun around. "Oh! I can move!" she cried exultantly. "Look, Éomer! I can lift my arms!" She did so in demonstration, her smile full of such joy that Éomer joined her in laughter. "And I can run!" Lothíriel leapt around a chair, twirling gracefully as the skirts flowed around her. "Is this what all women wear? In Rohan?" she asked when she was a mite calmer, her eyes bright as she gazed up at him.

Éomer took her hand in his, admiring the way the white wool made her skin flush and glow. "It is, indeed," he assured her. "I am glad you like the style."

"Like is a mild word!" Lothíriel said in a singsong voice, spinning around again. "I have never worn such a forgiving weave of fabric before! And it is so airy—I shan't sweat buckets in the summer any longer!"

"It appears as though Éowyn has outfitted you with many such dresses," Éomer said absently, peering into the trunk. "And proper riding clothes, and boots, and—well, you shall have to open the rest."

"Why?" she asked mulishly, turning 'round from where she had been slouching, very unladylike with one leg hooked over the armrest, in a chair by the empty hearth. Éomer smiled, raising an eyebrow.

"Do you not wish to see the rest of your gift?" he asked.

"I am perfectly content with what I already have. This dress has made me happier than any other clothing I have own in my life."

He straightened, folding his arms across his chest. "Come and admire the work my sister has done to please you, and I shall tell you a secret."

Lothíriel's eyes snapped back to him, glittering with interest. "A secret?"

"Come on, then." Éomer beckoned her over, and meekly she obeyed. When she was standing in front of him, her gaze expectant, he pursed his lips sternly for a moment, and then reached over to pluck out a pin from her hairnet.

"Oh!" she blinked. He took another, and another and another until Lothíriel grabbed her mass of hair to keep from falling her eyes wide. Éomer shook his head, and gently pried the hairnet from her fingers. Her tresses tumbled down in a sweet-smelling cascade, and with ornaments discarded on the floor where he decided they belonged, he sunk his fingers into her hair and tilted her face upwards.

Lothíriel responded eagerly to his kiss, apparently nonplussed at his actions. He pulled away a moment later, and told her solemnly, "Women of Rohan do not wear hairnets."

A surprised moment, and then a smile beamed on her face.

"You can do so, if you wish," Éomer added, to be fair. "But it is unnecessary. Why keep something so beautiful hidden from the world?"

Her arms, bare where the loose sleeves were falling upwards, wrapped around his neck as a mischievous smile grew on her lips. "I am going to like Rohan," Lothíriel declared.

"Rohan is going to like you, too."

At last she calmed enough to examine and sigh over the reminder of the gifts, her smile never fading. Three new frocks, including the white one, with undergarments, riding trousers and tunics, a cloak and both riding boots and half-boots which were generally worn outside. Lothíriel took her time, almost to Éomer's dismay, to try on everything—he assisted as patiently as he could, admiring how well these new clothes set off her figure.

"I love them!" she chattered happily, twirling around in a pale-blue dress. "Oh, I have never been so happy! I must write Éowyn and thank her at once."

"If you like," Éomer said.

"And afterwards, we should go sailing before sunset," Lothíriel added. Her face betrayed nothing as she swept elegantly into the chair at a writing desk.

"Eh—what?"

She cast him a look. "I am a kinder sailor than my brothers, I promise," she told him. "It would be remiss of me to allow you to leave Dol Amroth without truly enjoying the sea, and it is at its best at sunset."

Too enamored of his wife to fight it, Éomer gave his unhappy assent. "Very well, then. But while you're writing, I am going to see that all is in readiness for our departure to Rohan."

Lothíriel turned up her cheek for a parting kiss, which he gave. His walk to the stables to find his men had him wondering just why he could deny his wife nothing.

* * *

The sun dappled yellow and gold on the surface of the silver sea, and Éomer grudgingly admitted the scenery to be fine and the sailing not unpleasant. It was fortunate Lothíriel had a steadier hand when sailing her little boat, and they stayed close to the rocky shore beneath the vast white cliffs where the sea was calmer.

She was dressed in her new riding clothes, reveling in the freedom of movement as she secured the boom, lashed the tiller and tightened the mainstay. This boat was smaller than the one her brothers had taken him out in, and she managed the sailing of it smoothly, as if she had done so many times before. Which Éomer did not doubt.

"I used to come sail whenever I managed to distract my nurse with something—a false report of maidservants squabbling, or I would pretend to be sick and send her to the market to fetch me some remedy." Lothíriel had the grace to smile ruefully. "I would run down to the beach and shove my horrible frock in the boat." She motioned towards the bow, where there was a latched storage compartment.

"You would sail in your undergarments," Éomer said.

"Oh, yes. Less chance of getting tangled in the rigging."

He was suitably impressed, but not surprised. The more he knew his wife, the less he thought himself capable of being surprised. So he stretched out upon a few planks of wood, throwing his arm over his eyes to shield him from the sun, peeking out only every so often to watch whatever Lothíriel was doing.

As soon as the boat was secure, she, too, laid out on the bottom of the boat. Her boots propped up on the plank beside Éomer's head, and he cast her a wary glance. But she was looking away, her arm hanging carelessly over the side of the boat as her fingers streamed in the water.

"I wonder sometimes if I could have been a better princess," Lothíriel said, likely referring to her earlier tale of lying to her nurse and stowing away her dress.

"Perhaps," Éomer allowed, feeling lazy as he closed his eyes. "But I like you just the way you are."

Silence.

"You like me?" she asked, her voice small. He did not know if she was simply repeating it, or was wishing an answer—but a moment later she spoke again, even more quietly, "No one has ever liked me before."

"Nonsense," he said. "Your father and brothers adore you."

"Well, they love me because they are my family. But…I have never really had a friend. I never cared for the ladies at court, nor they for me, and even my nurse…"

Éomer lifted his arm to glare across the boat. Lothíriel immediately flushed. "Éowyn likes you," he stated. "Or at least intends to. And I can think of about six or seven women off the top of my head in Edoras who will think you are the greatest girl they have ever met, for better or worse."

"Worse?" Her brow pinched.

"It depends how much mischief you plan on getting into."

"Oh…I should not get into any, if I am to be queen." Lothíriel's eyes returned to the cliffs with the slightest dimming of the sparkle in them. "At least, that is what Marta says…"

Éomer held back a laugh. "No burning down stables," he advised. "And I hope you do not wander around with your outer clothes stuffed somewhere out of sight. At least, outside our own chambers."

She quirked a brow at him, and while he fancied that she valued his feelings on the matter, they were not like to change her nature entirely. Bema! How could he feel so fortunate and cursed at the same time?

Lothíriel stood without another word, tearing at the ties on her tunic. It was discarded to the bottom of the boat, and then her trousers, boots, and stockings. Éomer, too astonished to speak straightaway, finally said in a hoarse voice,

"What are you doing?"

"Going for a swim." She was left in the common undergarments of a female rider; linen-bound chest and smallclothes. He was staring at the very attractive slopes of her waist and belly when she turned, carefully climbing the edge of the sloop, and executed a flawless dive into the tranquil sea.

 _She can be impulsive_ , Imrahil had told Éomer many months earlier, which he sardonically recalled now. If only Imrahil knew…

A splash at his elbow brought Éomer's attention to the water. Lothíriel's head was poking out of the water, glistening with moisture as she bit her lip, holding back a beaming smile. She was looking more like the naiad he remembered, but even more desirable—for he both knew her and adored her. He grinned, despite himself, and propped his arms up on the rim of the boat.

"You should come swim," she said. "It is warm, I pro—"

"Aha! You blinked!" Éomer pointed a finger at her face, which now flushed. "You must answer me a question."

Lothíriel pursed her lips. "Oh, Éomer, really—"

"I wish to know what you meant last time, that our happiness depends on me."

"I did not think you would remember," she confessed, her blush deepening. "It was foolish of me."

"Explain, little wench."

She stuck her tongue out, and he forced himself not to laugh. Adopting a stern stare, he waited patiently her response. At last Lothíriel sighed, her fingers wrapping on the rim of the boat to hold herself steady.

"I was thinking that I was perfectly willing to make happiness with you in our marriage, despite being strangers. But had you shown no interest in me and no interest in that happiness, then we would not be happy. Joy does not simply happen," she added fiercely, her eyes sparking with passion. "It must be strived for! You asked a silly question. Happiness is a choice available to anyone."

"Then I choose it," Éomer said at once.

"Good. That does make things simpler." Lothíriel pulled herself upwards, pressing her salty lips to his. He was almost surprised, and after a moment grasped her face to keep her from escaping. There was a giggle in her throat, but he didn't care. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and emboldened, Éomer tried to pull her back into the boat—

She broke the kiss, breathing heavily with a most impish smile on her face. At that precise moment it dawned on him what she was going to do—Lothíriel tugged him downward with unnatural strength, and the seawater engulfed him with a horrifically ungraceful splash.

When he surfaced, he was spluttering and gasping for breath, and his bride laughed a short distance away.

"Kick your feet," she advised cheerily. "And wave your arms—like this."

Éomer copied her demonstration, but it did little. She frowned, and dived back below the surface again.

"Wench," he muttered to himself, pushing wet hair away from his face. "I'll get her back—"

A tugging on his foot, and then the other. At once he could float better, and Lothíriel reappeared with his boots in her hand, which she tossed into the now-empty boat.

"Shall I strip away the rest of your outer clothes as well?" she asked innocently. "It will help."

He unclenched his jaw. "Yes! Fine."

There was something strangely exhilarating about Lothíriel swimming 'round him like a little fish in the water, peeling away his stockings and trousers. It became even easier to keep his head above the surface, too, and he was feeling far more confident by the time his tunic was removed and thrown into the boat with the rest.

"Isn't it lovely," Lothíriel said with a sigh, floating on her back with her face to the sky.

"Yes, you are." The words were out of Éomer's mouth before he could stop them. Well, it hardly mattered—he grasped one of her slender wrists, and after a brief struggle wrapped her in his arms, keeping them surfaced.

Her color was high, and beautifully so. Her eyes glittered, but he did not know if it was with mischief or something else, and frankly, he did not care. Her fingers clenched on his bare shoulders. A moment of breathing each other's breaths, and Éomer kissed her, nearly forgetting to kick his feet.

Several minutes later it was becoming a significant challenge to kiss and tread water in tandem. He had tugged down Lothíriel's linen wrappings, tasting the salt on her breasts and not really caring (nor did she, for that matter), and Éomer was growing uncomfortable in a way that would be difficult, if not downright impossible to ease in the sea.

"Can we do this in your boat?" he asked his wife hoarsely.

"Oh—the planks would make it difficult—" Her hips were grinding into his, and so he did not think he was imagining her impatience matching his. "We should return," she murmured, her breath hot in his ear. "The sun will be gone soon…"

Laboriously, reluctantly, a bit testily—they clamored back into the boat, and after drying themselves as best they could with a scrap of sail, Lothíriel turned the boat back to the bay. Éomer slung his wet clothes over the beam, hoping the swift sea breeze would at least somewhat dry them before they returned to the palace. He was in no condition to be seen by anyone—except his wife, of course.

He cast a glance over to her, studying the pretty flush in her cheeks as she secured the boomstay. If he was to be completely honest...he had not expected this. He had not expected her. He had not expected a woman he would desire, a woman he could laugh with, a woman that he even wished to spend his days with…and somehow he had gotten all three.

"Lothíriel…" Éomer started to say, and then stopped. She smiled at him, waiting. "Thank you," he finished lamely. "It was a lovely sail."

Her smile grew. "Thank you for humoring me," she said, returning her attention to the ropes. "I would have been sad to leave without a final sail and a last swim."

The sloop began to cut through the waves, urged on by the wind north towards the city. Once it was sailing on its own, Lothíriel took a moment to observe their surroundings. Before Éomer could ask what she was doing (he was beginning to learn the signs of impending recklessness), she unwrapped the linens 'round her chest, letting them fall to the bottom of the boat in a sodden heap. Then her small clothes. He stared.

"Bema, Lothíriel!" he managed to croak. "What in Arda—"

"I am dressing," she said innocently, now tugging her dry tunic over her head. "I cannot very well show up in my underthings, hmm?"

"You are outrageous."

"I am sensible," Lothíriel retorted, rolling up the sleeves above her slender wrists. The tunic was long enough that it looked as though she was merely wearing a very short dress, and Éomer liked it. "I would rather not have wet bindings beneath dry clothes, and I took them off _now_ rather than waiting…" And have every sailor near the docks staring her way. Éomer could hear the implication in her voice, and saw it in the grin she tried to hide. He frowned.

"You are outrageous," he said again. Her shapely legs were disappearing into the trousers, and he withheld a groan of disappointment.

"I hope Father hasn't planned a feast for tonight," she mused, lacing the trousers with quick fingers. "I am bored of feasts."

Éomer privately agreed, but did not wish to appear ungrateful for the hospitality of his host—and his father-in-law. "If there is a feast and you find yourself nodding over the soup, we can plead exhaustion and escape," he said.

Lothíriel glanced at him in surprise. "Really?"

"Of course.

Still she did not appear to believe him, and asked, "Promise?"

"I promise."

She gave one of her laughs; quick and light like a cool sea breeze on a hot day. Leaping onto the bow of the sloop, Éomer watched as she held onto the bowsprit, her face to the sun and her hair rippling in the wind.

He was in love with her, he realized with a jolt. He'd have to tell her, sometime. But for now, he merely watched, and smiled.


End file.
